Eugene Salomon - Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

But there was no sign. The ride from hell went on like this – Estonia pretending to be asleep and myself looking for something, anything – for a few more minutes until we finally did arrive at Seeley Street. Actually I had a feeling of relief when we pulled up in front of their building as, thank God, the ordeal was over at last. Blonde Number One and The Stud pranced from the back seat without the slightest hint of embarrassment, all smiles. The Stud then handed me a $10 tip on top of the amount on the meter, a worthy gesture that didn’t really make up for the stress I had been caused to endure, but it did make me feel a bit better about things. The best thing, however, was that I was rid of them and could get on with the complacency of my daily grind.

Or so I thought.

Like the trick ending of a horror movie where you think the psycho is dead but then somehow he’s coming at you again with a butcher knife, there was more.

After a brief conversation with Blonde Number One, Estonia decided to continue on with the ride. What she’d thought was going to be a night of hanging out with her friends had become a sex party for them but not for her. So what was the point of staying? She’d rather just go home. And home, it turned out, was several more minutes into Brooklyn.

I thought she would move from the front to the back and make the whole spatial arrangement more comfortable for the two of us. But no – she stayed up front with me! Now it would be just the two of us alone in the front seat. What had been perhaps the most awkward situation theoretically possible between a man and a woman who didn’t know each other had actually taken a turn for the worse. This was even more awkward.

I pulled out and headed for Ocean Parkway. It would be an eight-minute ride on that road until we reached Avenue P, where she lived. Once again, the tension of the situation gripped me. What was she thinking? Was her staying up front with me a clue that I was supposed to act on? What should I do? What should I do?

Well, I wish I could tell you that the ride ended in a mutually enjoyable fling that I could smile about when reminiscing about my sexual adventures. But the truth is a woman has to just about rip her clothes off and dance the hula before I get the message. Estonia and I continued to chit-chat all the way to Avenue P as if the debauchery we had just witnessed had not really happened. She paid me the additional fare and left with a slight smile on her face. At least it kind of looked like a smile.

But it wasn’t all for nothing. In the course of the remainder of the ride I learned that Estonia, the country, is bordered by Latvia to the south, Russia to the east, and the Gulf of Finland to the north; that the capital city is called Tallinn; that most people are Lutherans; and that it’s a great place to raise cattle.

Fascinating stuff. Really hope to visit that place someday.

Multi-tasking. It’s a concept that’s gained quite of bit of popularity recently. The guy with a cell phone in one hand, watching a computer screen, reading a report and eating his lunch – all at the same time – is an image of the modern age. Why should it be any different in a taxicab?

I was cruising in Hell’s Kitchen at around 1 a.m. on a cool, December night when a short, thickset guy – pale, white skin, slick black hair, about twenty-five years old – hailed me at 45 thand 9 th. A skinny, black girl, somewhere between sixteen and twenty, I would say, followed him into the back seat. I could see by the way they sat some distance apart that there was no great affinity between them.

I started driving down 9 thAvenue expecting to hear what our destination would be, but there was nothing.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Make your next left,’ the guy said.

‘Okay.’

I turned left onto 44 thStreet but hit some traffic halfway down the block. We came to a halt.

‘How long you been drivin’ tonight?’ he asked.

‘Since five o’clock.’

‘Busy tonight?’

‘Not bad for a Tuesday,’ I said, ‘but things get slow after midnight.’ The guy was showing signs of being a conversationalist. I liked that.

After nearly a minute we approached the intersection at 8 thAvenue, but there was still no decision as to what our destination would be.

‘Go left?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, make the left and make another left a few blocks up the avenue,’ he replied.

‘On which street?’

‘Whichever one you want.’

Now this was weird. I immediately began to wonder why a passenger wouldn’t care where I was going. The first thing I thought of was that he didn’t intend to pay me for the ride so he didn’t care how high the meter ran. But this guy didn’t appear to me to be a flight risk. He just wasn’t that type.

I looked at him again in the mirror. I noticed that I could see him but not her. There are only two explanations for this phenomenon: 1) they are cuddling with her head resting on his lap, facing upward, or 2) they are not cuddling and her head is facing downward… and you know what that means. Based on my prior observation that there was no particular love between them, I knew it was number two – this guy was getting a blowjob!

Well, at least I understood why he didn’t care where I drove. The girl, I now surmised, was a hooker. My taxi had been turned into a brothel and, although I might have had cause to be offended, the guy had shown manners by asking me how my night had been going, and that was enough for me not to take issue with his behavior. I drove up 8 thAvenue and made a left on 53 rd, not expecting to hear anything but some grunts and perhaps some squishy noises coming from the back seat. So it came as quite a surprise that he resumed our conversation when we stopped for a red light at 53 rdand 9 th.

‘Hey, you wanna hear something wild?’

‘Sure.’

He mentioned the name of a former US senator from the state of New York and asked if I was familiar with him.

‘Sure.’

‘Well, he’s gonna get indicted. It’ll happen in a few days.’

‘Really?’

He then dropped the name of a well-known Mafia celebrity who was in jail at the time and said he was ‘giving up’ the former senator in a deal to get out of the joint.

‘What did he do?’ I asked, meaning the former senator.

‘He’s been working for us for years.’

I paused for a moment while I processed this information. Here’s a guy getting a blowjob telling me he’s in the Mob and has inside information that a former US senator from New York is connected to the Mafia. Uh… okaaay…

‘No kidding,’ I said, ‘that is wild.’

‘Yeah, you’ll read about it in a few days.’

‘Wow.’

I buzzed down 9 thAvenue and made a right on 43 rd. We hit a red light at 10 thAvenue. There had been a lull of about thirty seconds in our conversation but now that we were sitting still Mr Horny Mob Guy felt it was time to start chatting again.

‘You play the horses?’ he asked.

‘Once in a while.’

‘Write this down – Wilfredo Prieto .’ (Not the name he actually said.)

‘Who’s Wilfredo Prieto?’

‘A jockey. ’Bout a week before Christmas he’s gonna ride a horse at Belmont. Fifty to one, but he’s gonna win.’

‘No kidding?’ I wrote the name down on my trip sheet.

‘Yeah, he comes up from Puerto Rico every year and does this race for us, then we give the money to charity.’

‘Hey, thanks, man,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna use this.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Thanks!’

I drove up 10 thAvenue and made a right on 52 nd. By the time we reached the end of the block the ride and the blowjob were over. He paid me $10 for a $6.10 fare and then he and the girl left the cab and disappeared in separate directions into the night.